


Virus

by Tiger_Lilly13



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-01-29 03:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12622164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiger_Lilly13/pseuds/Tiger_Lilly13
Summary: Ten years after the deadly outbreak of the engineered virus called the Blight destroyed the modern era of Thedas, a hunter meets a woman on a mission that could change everything.Dragon Age/Resident Evil crossover





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cross over between Dragon Age and Resident Evil. I've never seen anything like this before, so if I'm wrong and there is something out there that's similar, let me know. I was playing Resident Evil 7 (awesome game btw) and I had a thought. What if we took the characters from Dragon Age and put them into similar situations? Instead of dark spawn, the zombies are called the Spawn and they have the same behavior as those in the Walking Dead. I have it as complete for now, but please let me know if you would like to see more of this story!

The air is still, barely a breeze through the trees and their dead leaves, no birds chirping or insects buzzing. The echoes of a creak nearby can be heard, the water rushing over the small rocks, also void of any life. It is midday, the sun beginning its decent, and a shadow is cast on the forest floor. A tall, blonde hunter is trudging through the woodland, his weathered boots crunching in the debris left behind by the passing fall season. He adjusts his coat tightly around him, trying to fight off the biting cold, his breath visible in the air.

He has been wandering for days, looking for anything of use: weapons, food, traps left behind. He has come upon nothing, and is beginning to think that he will not be able to bring anything back to Haven, one of the last standing cities in Ferelden. If you could call it a city with a population of only about fifty, including his own family.

He abruptly stops when he hears rustling behind the thick brush just ahead of him. He lowers to the ground, pulling out his hunting knife from its sheath on his hip, a blade about ten inches long and recently sharpened, moving as quietly as he can toward the disturbance. He doesn’t go for his pistol, not wanting to attract any noise if he needs to defend himself. As he gets closer, the sounds of ripping flesh and crunching bone becomes apparent and he prepares himself. He steps on a twig and he winces, cursing inwardly, the snapping branch deafening in the quiet woods. The sound attracts the attention of the creature behind the brush and it lifts slowly, its mangled and disfigured head appearing over it.

It immediately catches sight of the man and moans sickeningly, beginning to drag its broken body towards him. The blonde sighs in relief because there is only just one and he stands, walking cautiously towards it. When he is just past a safe distance away, he lunges his knife through the chin and out the top of its head, blood gushing from the wound and the creature letting out a gurgling growl before falling silent. He yanks his blade back and the body falls limply to the ground. The man walks around the dead _thing,_ wiping his blade of its sickly blood as he sees what the creature was eating.

He comes around the brown, tall shrub and he stops. A halla is dead, the halla he had been tracking for the last day, mangled corpse rotting from days of being exposed to the air, and large chunks of its flesh and organs removed. The man kneels down next to it, resheathing his knife and he sighs, “Damn it.” He shakes his head, “Sorry, poor fellow.” He does not deny that he would have taken the halla back to Haven for meat, but at least the creature would not have suffered a horrible fate. There is no way that he can take this one now, infected with the blood of the Spawn. He notices the coat of the animal not covered in crimson to have a golden sheen to it, but thinks nothing of it.

He looks back to the creature, one of the Spawn, with narrowed eyes. He has been able to avoid the main hordes as much as possible, keeping to the dense woods, off the roads and away from the main cities. With the leaves falling though, it has given less cover, and the creatures have begun to fan out, looking for more hunting grounds. They are not intelligent, but they are deadly, persistent, and will only go down when the spinal cord is severed. He has lost too many people to these things, and he avoids them at all costs when going out for supplies. Unfortunately, he has had to travel very far this time; the surrounding areas of Haven already picked clean.

He stands, rubbing the back of his neck, unsure of what to do now. He squints against the sun, bringing his hand up to shield from the rays when he thinks he spots the silhouette of another person, or a Spawn knowing his luck, but it is gone when he blinks. _Odd_ , he thinks to himself, _best to keep moving._

It is getting later in the day, and he must find shelter soon, the hordes more dangerous and active at night. He continues to wander a bit aimlessly until he spots an old building in the distance. He sends a thank you to Andraste and journeys to the small house, eyes darting over the area, always alert.

As he gets closer though, it is actually an abandoned general store and across a wide stretch of highway. _Wonderful_ , he thinks bitterly. He weighs his options. He cannot light a fire out in the open, it will attract Maker knows what. He cannot stay outside, he will certainly freeze. He is already starving and his rations are dwindling. The store may have some provisions still and he cannot see any inhabitants. He takes a deep breath, coming to a decision.

He ducks low and emerges from the trees, pistol and knife in hand. He looks left, then right, and then sprints as quickly as he can with his pack on his back across the stretch of road. Once across, he puts his back to the wall of the building, breathing hard and looking frantically for any movement. He sighs in relief when there is none. The hordes must have passed on from here. He can vaguely see their tracks in the mud around the structure.

Catching his breath, he turns towards the entrance, leaning over to peak through the glass, unable to see much through the dirty windows, caked with mud and dust from years of neglect. Seeing no movement inside, he gently pushes the door open, sticking his head inside. The bell on top of the door sounds and he freezes, sucking in a breath. He is still, waiting for any kind of reaction, and again, finding none.

He moves silently through, lifting his arm to yank the bell off of the door, and closes it soundlessly behind him. He looks around the small store with caution. It has clearly been ransacked but he does see a few things that could be of use.

He moves around carefully, meandering through the broken down shelves and avoiding the empty cans of food _or whatever it was_ , along with useless junk such as magazines, knick knacks, and currency, sovereigns and silvers having lost their shine to the decay. He snorts softly to himself, _if only we had known how insignificant that would become_. He looks up at the skylight above, seeing the sun setting for the day. He makes his way to the small office in the back, opening the door seeing it littered with files and papers, being sure to clear it before settling down for the evening in the relatively safe corner.

He goes about making a small, contained fire to heat his mystery can, lays out his bedroll in the corner, and closes the door, pushing the still intact desk against the door for good measure. He turns to his mediocre meal of beans and rice and pulls out a small lantern, lighting it and dousing his cooking flames with a bit of soil.

He lies down, pulling his pistol from his waistband and putting it next to him on the floor, his knife on the other side. He pulls a book from his pack and reads for a little while before lowering the light on the lantern to a soft glow, and closes his eyes, hoping tomorrow will bring better fortune.

\------------------------------

The hunter is jolted awake by a loud bang outside the door. His military training kicking in, he raises from the make shift bed, grabbing his knife and firearm. He sneaks to the door and opens it slowly, pushing the desk away as quietly as he can. He doesn’t see anything so he opens it a bit more, the darkness hindering his line of sight.

He walks out of the office, the night still overhead from the skylight, but the soft glow of the lantern spreading throughout the space. With his brows furrowed in concentration, he listens for a moment. Sighing, thinking it is just some animal or some rotten wood that has broken off and crashed to the floor, he holsters his pistol and turns around.

The man is knocked over by the impact of a body onto his left side, his weapons flying out of his hands, landing somewhere with loud clangs. A heavy, decomposing body is snapping its jaws fervently with a snarl, aiming for his neck, desperate to rip his flesh and sink its teeth down to his spine. The man slams on his side from the attack, his left leg landing painfully on a shelf that has fallen and he feels the snap of cracking bone. He shouts in a sharp pain, fighting with the creature writhing on top of him. He struggles, the Spawn heavy and demanding for his blood and meat. He finally frees his arm enough to reach for his pistol wildly, and he turns his head to the side and fires right into its temple, the blood missing his mouth as it splatters on his face, the Spawn falling still instantly.

He pushes the creature off of him, gasping loudly when trying to move his left leg. He grabs for it and looks down. No bone is sticking out, not broken. Possibly fractured. _Fuck._

His head rears back when he hears moaning and shuffling inside the store, fear clear in his amber eyes. He scoots back roughly, grabbing his knife and trying to get inside the office as quickly as he can without standing. He sees the heads and dead eyes of at least three Spawn before he slams the door shut behind him with his good leg. He barely manages to stand, gritting his teeth in pain, and he shoves the desk back against the door, his only defense against the creatures.

His breath is unsteady and sharp as he wobbles over to his pack, rummaging through it, hoping for anything to get out of this position, but all he has is his knife and a few rounds of his pistol. Worse, he is now injured, perhaps not fatally, but enough to cripple him and that is as deadly as being dismembered in this situation. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He is not an optimistic man, he is aware of his fate now, it is only a matter of time before those things break through, and who knows how many more are out there.

He leans against the far wall and he slides down to sit, his face blank looking at the door, his leg throbbing, but he barely feels it. He shakes his head to himself in disappointment. The man looks down at his bag and reaches into it, remorsefully taking out the picture of Mia, Branson, and Rosalie, his loving siblings. He runs a hand down the photo, _I’m so sorry Mia, I will not be there for the birth of your child._

A tear runs down his face and he sniffs as the creatures beginning banging on the door, echoing loudly in the small room. He squeezes his eyes tight, and then opens them, his resolve firmly in place. He tucks the photo in his coat and turns his attention to the door. Scowling and training his pistol on the door, he yells, “Come on, you bastards!” He will go down fighting, down to his last breath.

His head snaps up, eyes wide as he hears footsteps on the roof, running lightly, and the sound of glass shattering beyond the door. There’s grunting, yelling, growling, and thumps as he assumes bodies beginning to drop and he fears that something worse than a Spawn has found him. After a few moments of confusing chaos, silent fills the room, the only sounds are his strangled breath and blood pounding in his ears.

He hold his breath and cocks his pistol as the knob on the door turns, and whatever it is pushes on it, the desk sliding roughly and loudly, the door opening. A person, not a Spawn, enters the small office, and it looks to be a woman. She has a machete in one hand, covered in Spawn blood, the sickly deep red dripping from the sharp blade. She is wearing all black, combat boots on the outside of her cargo pants with a blade tucked on the side and a hood over her head with long raven black hair and a bow and quiver thrown over her shoulder. She is small in stature, but no less intimidating. With her other hand still on the knob on the other side of the door, she looks frantically around the room until her eyes, the brightest blue eyes he has ever seen, lands on his own. She rushes towards him and lends him her delicate looking hand.

“We have to go!” She yells.

He is so dumbfounded that he can only answer lamely, “What?”

“Here!” she shakes her extended hand at him in irritation, “Take my hand. We need to go now!”

He furrows his brows at her in suspicion, “Wait, who are-?”

She cuts him off with a shout and a violent shake of her head, “There’s no time! Come on!”

He relents and takes the strange woman’s hand, lifting himself up with her surprising strength, but when he puts pressure on his left leg he shouts and leans on the desk. She lets go of his hand and bends her knees, level with his wounded leg. She examines him irritably for a moment then mutters, “Shit.” _Oh, that sounds good_ , he thinks sarcastically.

She throws his arm over her shoulder and lifts, again her strength astounding him, but he still has his pride. “I can walk.” He says stubbornly, while shuffling next to her. 

She scoffs as she leads them out of the office, “Whatever you say, tough guy.” They limp past the bodies that she disposed of and he is impressed with the way they are dismembered so cleanly. _Who is this woman_

As they leave the store, she stops to survey the area, clouds overhead blocking out the moonlight, her eyes apparently able to see in the darkness. The man hears the murmuring and moaning of multiple, disordered voices and he knows instantly that at least a dozen Spawn are near them. The woman holding him up whispers a near silent, “Fuck” before she leads them in the opposite direction of the horrible noises, going around the building and heading into the fields behind it. She says to him quietly but sternly, “The shot of your pistol has attracted them.”

He responds in a tight, annoyed tone as he wobbles with her support, “I didn’t have any other choice.”

She shakes her head, more to herself, he thinks, “It doesn’t matter now.”

They stumble along for a few minutes until curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, his voice low but edged with pain, “Where are we going?”

“Shh. My safe house. It isn’t far.”

She carries him about half a mile behind the general store through the thick woods until they come upon an old, abandoned farm house. It is small, but looks relatively undamaged. She pulls him to the door and ushers him inside, closing it behind her. The few windows are still intact and there are no holes in the walls, which is surprising for a house this old.

She leaves him leaning against a table with a hand radio on it as she goes to the middle of the room. He stares at her in confusion as she feels around on the floor until she grips the handle of the hidden latch and pulls open a trap door. She comes back to him and herds him down a flight of stairs into a concrete room, about 12 feet deep. It is lit with lanterns spread in each corner of the room and a few on the tables, though it is still very dark and dreary and about the size of a small apartment. She places him on the small cot in the corner with unexpected gentleness and turns to one of the tables, laying down her bow, quiver and machete. Once rid of her weapons, she turns to one of the shelves along the walls, searching for something.

He takes a moment to look around the small space. “What is this place?” He asks while noticing another cot on the opposite side, it looking slept in at least once with an empty duffel bag to its side.

“It’s a storm shelter.” She answers casually while grabbing various items off the shelves along the walls, “I found it yesterday, nothing is able to get through the hatch, if the Spawn can even see it, and even if they do, I doubt they would know to open it.” The woman comes back to him and deposits gathered items on the small table next to the cot, a first aid kit, some whiskey, and a bottle of water.

He arches an eyebrow and motions over them, “And these things were just here?”

She looks up at him and eyes him warily until she answers simply, “No.” She looks back down to the aid kit and opens it, taking out a few things, “These are my own supplies.” The mention of supplies has him sighing internally. He left his own pack back at the store, not even thinking to grab it. _Damn it, I’ll have to go back at some point, if I even survive._

The woman kneels next to him and gestures to his injured leg, “Lift up.” The man does as she asks and hisses through clenched teeth as he lifts his pant leg, exposing his shin. It is clearly swollen, but there is no outside sign of injury besides the purple bruising, though that usually means little. He can tell it is at least fractured and will require weeks of bed rest, which is most certainly a death sentence. She looks it over with furrowed brows, “This can’t be treated normally.” She mutters to herself.

“What does that mean?” He asks worriedly, eyeing her face for any sign of what she’s thinking.

She looks up into his eyes, watching him with her bright blue ones making it difficult for him to think, “It means hold still.” She says gently. He swallows nervously as she lays her hands on his leg. An unexpected shiver runs through his body when he feels her small, delicate hands on his skin. She squeezes her eyes shut in deep concentration and he is just about to ask what she is doing when a light begins to shine from underneath her hands, and he feels a warm, soothing sensation spread through his leg. His eyes widen as the fractured bone begins to set in place, and the pain subsides slightly.

_Magic?! It has all but died out through the ages!_

The light fades and she heaves a great sigh, lowering her arms to her lap, only a lingering throb in his shin. He takes a shaky breath and stares at her slack jawed and stutters, “H-How?”

The woman is motionless for a moment, then hesitantly lifts her arms and pulls her hood back and stares up at him, revealing pointed ears and he gasps. _An elf? An elf in Ferelden?_ She has an angular face with dark blue tattoos that make her eyes even brighter, symmetrical on her forehead, swirling down her temples onto her high cheek bones with one more bisecting her bottom lip and down to the middle of her chin. Her black hair his pulled back on the sides in braids, silver beads linking through the strands as the rest falls over her shoulders. She has a determined and fierce look in her eyes, almost daring him to say anything derogatory. But despite her aggressive stance, he can’t help but think that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever laid his eyes on.

The only thing that can come out of his mouth, that feels a bit like it’s filled with cotton, is, “What is an elf doing in Ferelden?” And a Dalish elf, no less.

She studies his face, seeming to look for any kind of judgment and finding none, she stands to gather the supplies from the kit, not answering him.

There are a million questions running through his mind and he tries to sift through them one at a time, “How do you still possess magic? It was breed out ages ago.” She looks back to him, but still says nothing, to his utter frustration. She takes a package from the first aid kit before closing it and putting it back on the shelf. She tears it open, dropping two white pills in her hand.

The elf looks back to him, but still says nothing. She kneels in front of him again and takes his hand in hers, putting two pills in his palm, “Take these. Rest. I will go up and keep watch.” She stands and gathers her weapons from the table in the middle of the room, slinging her bow on her back an equipping her machete. She walks towards the stairs leading out of the shelter, him utterly shocked about this turn of events, but he must know at least something about his rescuer.

“Wait!” He shouts desperately. To his surprise, the elf stops, her black cloak flowing around her, but does not look back at him, so he presses on, “At least tell me your name.” She doesn’t respond or move, so he decides to tell her his name, to maybe ease her into telling him hers. He puts his hand on his chest and says, “My name is Cullen Rutherford.”

The mysterious, raven haired elf turns her head slowly, looking at him with those bright blue eyes, contemplation swirling in them and her jaw clenched tight. He almost gives up, thinking that she will not reveal anything about herself until she says softly, “Val’aria. Val’aria Lavellan.”

He half smiles at her, relieved. “Val’aria.” Cullen responds with gentleness, testing her name on his tongue, and what a beautiful name it is. He nods his head at her and tells her sincerely, “Thank you, Val’aria.”

She gives him a ghost of a smile, but it is gone before he can really see it and she only responds, “Rest.” She turns her back to him and climbs the stairs, the hatch closing behind her with a loud shlick. He can hear her boots on the wooden floor of the hatch before they fade away.

Cullen sighs heavily and looks at the two white pills in his hand. Thinking that she wouldn’t go to all this trouble to rescue him if she was just going to poison him, he unscrews the cap to the bottle of water still on the table and downs what he assumes are pain killers. He sets the bottle back onto the table and lies down on the cot, getting comfortable and tries to rest like she told him to. He eyes the whiskey bottle momentarily, but decides against it for now.

He stares up at the gray, concrete ceiling as the questions still race in his mind. Who is this elf? What business does she have here? How did she know where he was? How does she still have the ability to use magic? And above all else, and perhaps the most important one, _why did she save me?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were many directions I had this going and I was going back and forth between so many variations of it, but this is what came out. This was originally going to be a Cullen POV only, but I really wanted to expand on our mysterious elf a bit.

Val’Aria sighs heavily, dropping the heavy bag off of her shoulder onto the floor in the farm house with a thump. She made it back just in time before the rain started. She knew by the clouds and the eerie silence that it was going to storm, and she wanted to go back and retrieve the humans pack for him before it started. The worse that could happen would be to have wet clothes. She didn’t want to catch an illness, especially not now. She knew that scavengers could be in the area and she didn’t want his things to get stolen, and by the looks of them, he has quite the collection of valuables. Not that she was snooping, but a lot of his things were spread out in the small office. His sleeping bag, a box of ammo and some provisions among them, including a picture of a pregnant woman who she assumes is his wife or partner. Stuffing them all into the bag, she leaves the office but stays to browse the store for any items of use, but only coming across rotten food, dirty magazines, and Spawn corpses. Seeing the place no longer had any value, she took off quickly back to her safe house with his belongings in tow.

The elf now paces slowly back and forth in front of the windows in the small cabin, not wanting to go into the cellar in case he was still asleep. Her steel blue eyes sharp for any movement outside in the rain. The horde past on a few hours ago which is why she took the chance to venture out of her shelter and save the humans bag. And why had she done that? Why should she care?

_Creators,_ she curses. The human. Cullen, he said his name was. An idiot really, for firing off a shot in the middle of nowhere with a horde wandering nearby. She was scouting the area herself when she heard the pop of the shot. She had immediately reacted, relying on her training and senses to find the source of it. Seeing that some of the Spawn were struggling to get into the little store front that the shot came from, she figured there was something or someone in there that caught the Spawns interest. When she heard him yelling, she was conflicted. He was a human, and she was trying to stay as far away from humans as she could because of what happened with her last encounter with them, but she just couldn’t, so she ran to the opposite side of the building, climbed the piping and ran across to the skylight, smashing the window and jumping through. She had dispensed of the Spawn easily enough, their slow reaction speeds and low intellect making them quick work.

When she pushed open the door to the office that she was sure he had barricaded himself in, she did not expect someone like him. What caught her off guard was how handsome he was, but the intensity in his amber eyes stunned her so much so that she had to mentally shake her head so that she could focus on saving him. Seeing that he was injured beyond what normal medicine and survival training she had, Val’Aria knew she had to do something, or he was going to die. She could see the damage and knew infection would spread if she didn’t help him.

She did not want to use her magic in fear that he would try to attack her, and so when she did and healed him to the best of her abilities, she pulled back her hood and revealed herself to him. But instead of him being angry or frightened of her magic, or the fact that she was an elf, he just seemed astonished without malice and almost in awe of her. She didn’t know how to take that, so she busied herself in taking care of him, ignoring his many questions.

But when he begged for her name, giving her his own, her resolved cracked. He just seemed so sincere and grateful, traits she never expected to see in a human. So she gave him her name. It was enough to settle him so that he could rest.

A loud crack of thunder jolts her out of her memories, the sky darkening even more so then usual. _Well,_ she thought, _at least there’s a storm shelter._ She checks the perimeter once more before making a hasty retreat back into the cellar, grabbing the human’s bag. She walks over to the trap door and opens it, moving inside. She closes the hatch silently behind her and descends the stairs, her boots scraping against the concrete. When she gets to the bottom, she sees that the human is still asleep on the other cot, his chest rising and falling with his deep breaths. The elf softly lays his pack on the floor next to his cot, and goes to rid of her weapons once more on the table in the middle. Once they are discarded, she removes her cloak and hangs it over the end of her make-shift bed, leaving her in just her black T-shirt. She won’t be needing it now that he has already seen her face, and her ears.

She just needs time to think, of what her next more will be. She has only been trying to survive on her own in this unfamiliar land for about a month, relying only on herself. But now, unexpectedly, she has another to look out for. She could keep moving east, make her way to what she thinks is called the Hinterlands. She heard that there are wide open fields and many abounded houses. The Spawn apparently has left that place mostly untouched after everyone was killed at the beginning of all this mess. She just needs to gather her strength and wait for her next opportunity, biding her time. But she cannot linger for long. Not with _them_ after her.

She is taken out of her musings when the human, _Cullen,_ she reminds herself again, begins to jerk and mumble in his sleep. She cocks her head to the side curiously before she stands, moving silently over to him and kneeling next to his cot. Almost unconsciously, she brushes a curl that has landed on his forehead back and studies his face. He is handsome, no denying that. Blonde hair, tan skin, a strong jaw, and a scar on his lip that looks like it was painful when he suffered the wound. She finds herself wanting to know how he got it. He is very different from her peoples sharp and pointed features. His forehead is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his brows furrowed tightly as if in pain. She worries if maybe he has an infection and that is causing a fever. She leans forward to inspect him more but at that moment his eyes snap open and a hand flies up and grasps her wrist tightly.

Val’Aria inhales sharply, recoiling her head and reaching for the dagger on her leg on instinct, fear swelling in her, but she stays her hand, foolishly trusting enough not to unsheathe her blade and cut his throat. To her relief, he just grips her wrist tight, his eyes darting wildly about the room while he pants heavily. His eyes then finally land on her, their gazes fixed on each other. After a tense moment, realization seems to set in and he releases her with a dejected sigh. She yanks her hand back and rubs her wrist in indignation, but does not speak as she watches him closely.

Cullen raises his hand and drags it down his face and mumbles, “I’m sorry.” And his tone suggests he really means it, like this has happened before with another.

“It’s alright.” She responds calmly. “I need to look at your leg. See if there is an infection.” She waits for him to consent with a wave of his hand and she lifts the blanket. Looking at the wound, it is healing nicely. The bruising is still present, but the bone has been set. He will most likely be in pain for a while, but he will be able to walk in a few days time.

The elf lays the blanket back on his leg gently, “A few more days off it and you should be fine.”

He regards here cautiously before he tells her, “Thank you. You are too kind.”

She smiles at him briefly, but she turns when his gaze pierces through her, a warm feeling sparking in her belly. _Creators, what has gotten into me?_

“Miss Lavellen, I -”

She cuts him off, “Please just call me Val’Aria. Or Val, if you’d like.”

He nods his head, “Val’Aria. Thank you again, for saving me.”

“You’re welcome.” She answers simply.

They fall into an awkward silence. Val’Aria has no idea how to strike up a conversation with this shem so she just stares at him. Not that she was really good at talking anyway. It probably comes across as creepy but she is not keen on having him out of her sight in case he tries something.

He shifts uncomfortably under her scrutiny. He clears his throat and says, “I have to say, though, it would seem I had luck on my side for you to be in the area when you were.”

She nods her head, remaining guarded, “Indeed you did.”

He heaves a big sigh, but then he props up on his elbow and regards her with narrowed eyes, “Who are you?”

Her brows draw inward in confusion, “I told my name.”

“Yes I know, but _who_ are you?” he asks adamantly, “What are you doing here?

She blanches a bit at the insistent of the question and swallows visibly, but she does her best to try to hide her nervousness with a vague response, “Surviving. Like you.”

One of his brows quirks up, “That’s not much of an answer.” When she remains silent, he continues, “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but I’m just surprised to see an elf in Ferelden.”

She bristles at his repeated words from earlier, getting a bit annoyed with him not taking a no for an answer so she just snips back at him, “Yes well…we all have our secrets.” He stares back at her for a moment, seeming to war with himself whether he wants to continue, until he gives up and flops onto his back, defeated, staring at the ceiling. He seems to take the hint and stops the line of questioning so she takes the opportunity to tell him of his injury, “There’s no infection. In a few days, you should be completely healed. When that day comes, you can go back to your village or wherever you came from.”

He turns his head to look at her and she is taken back by the golden color of his eyes, so she turns her head away from his gaze, “And what about you?”

She glances at him timidly, “What about me?”

“What will you do?” If she is reading him correctly, it almost seems as if he is showing concern for her, which is ridiculous. Humans and elves hate each other. Right?

She huffs, “You are really no letting up about this, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She falls silent again, contemplating this human and his strange behavior. Any other shem would take the chance to kill her, or do other awful things to her, but he only seems to want to get to know her. She didn’t even have that kind of concern where she came from. How is it that this stranger she rescued not a few hours ago is showing her more kindness and genuine interest in her than she has ever received in her life? She shakes her head with a smile and a humorless laugh but stands to move back to her own cot a few feet away. She sits, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, looking and picking at her nails.

“So,” He begins, probably just to break the silence, “You possess magic.” He says it as a fact and not a question, and calmly, which is odd.

“Yes. I…am one of the few that can still cast spells.” Even though he has shown no signs of aggression, she is still apprehensive to talk about it.

“How is that possible?” He asks inquisitively.

She thinks back to what she learned while with her former employer, what she was taught. She supposes there is no harm in telling him some things, “From my understanding, humans have lost the ability of magic. With the elves, it took longer for it to dissipate, but I was one of the lucky ones.” She says sarcastically. He does pick up on her tone but he decides to drop the subject, noticing her uncomfortableness with the topic.

He nods in understanding , his eyes traveling across the tiny space, “I was curious. I don’t see any firearms around. The technology may be scarce but even my people have them.”

She smirks at him with confidence, “It’s much easier to make an arrow than a bullet.”

He hums, “Good point.”

There is one thing that has been nagging at her mind and she can’t stop herself as she asks, “The woman in the picture…she your wife?” She cringes at her tone. She does not sound jealous, she does not. Why would she be jealous?

He chuckles, “No. my sister actually. I didn’t think that I would be there for the birth of her son but, now thanks to you, I will be.” He gives her a grateful smile that warms her heart…and other places. She now not only wants to know about how he got that scar, but many other things about him as well. Which is confusing, because she also is wary of him and his intentions. She is getting a headache with all these conflicting emotions about him.

She returns his smile shyly, not really knowing what else to say, “Your welcome. Again.” She looks down at her hands, suddenly finding them very interesting. Coming to a decision so that they don’t have to just sit there in awkward silence forever, she looks up at him, “If we are going to be cooped up here for a few days, we might as well be cordial and get to know each other.”

He scoffs, “Oh so now you are interested in talking?”

She narrows her eyes at him in a scowl, “No. I want you to talk. I may have saved your life, but I don’t trust you. I want to know who you are and where you are from.”

“Fine. I am just a hunter from Haven, one of the last still standing cities in Ferelden.” He pauses, “Well, if you could call it a city. It’s near the Frostbacks.”

With her limited knowledge of the land, she still knows that the mountains are further west than where they are now, “You are a long way from home.”

Cullen moves to sit up and lean his back against the wall with a grunt, “The surrounding areas were growing scarce with supplies. We had to fan out our search parties to larger distances.”

The elf nods her nod, “I see. And this city, the people. They are all just trying to survive?”

“Yes.” He says with confusion.

“Interesting.” She goes silent as he stares at her, almost as if he is trying to read her mind. She looks down at her fascinating hands again and murmurs without thinking, “I’ve never come across humans like you.”

He narrows his eyes at her for a moment, and she can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Humans apparently are smarter than she was lead to believe, or at least this one is. His gaze wanders to the far wall of shelves and focuses on the provisions and medical kits. His head snaps to her and he gives her an accusatory look, “These aren’t really your supplies. There’s too many for just one person.”

There is no point in lying to him, so she agrees in a flat tone, “No.”

He asks her quietly, dangerously, “Did you kill someone for them?”

Her jaw clenches and she lifts her chin, “Yes. Right after they tried to kill me. The only experience I have with your kind are not good ones, so watch what you say.”

He sneers, “If you hate humans so much, why did you save me?”

“Because I - ” She stops herself before she lets out more than she means to. She settles for a vague answer, “It’s complicated.”

“I’ve heard that before.” He mutters, rolling his eyes.

Val’Aria huffs angrily, his tone grating on her nerves and her control hanging by a thread. She grits out through clenched teeth, “I have no intention of hurting you. If I wanted to, I could have left you for the Spawn.”

“Then why didn’t you?” He shouts.

She snaps, “Because I don’t hold the same prejudges my people do. Because I have a heart and would never leave someone to that fate, elf or human. Because I’m not an asshole who would just abandon someone when they need them most!” She has risen from her seat and started to yell before she realized it, her memories overtaking her. She is panting, her fists clenched at her side and glaring daggers at him.

His features soften at her outburst and he avoids her gaze, looking away her, resigning himself and his eyes showing regretfullness for questioning her again. “I’m sorry.” He says gently, and Val’Aria almost falls apart at those two little words pronounced with so much meaning. With so much sincerity and empathy. No one has ever spoken like that to her. As if he knows the kind of struggles and obstacles she has had to face.

The elf sighs in dejection, “No, it’s alright.” She says softly, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I should have more control than this.” What she doesn’t say is how comfortable she feels around him to let the mask slip a bit, to show emotion and hurt and anger that she hasn’t allowed herself to feel for so long.

He looks back to her with his brows drawn in with concern, a knowing question in his eyes that he will not ask, and she would not answer him even if he did. There is so much more to humanity than what she was brainwashed into believing.

Her voice is thick and strangled as she tells him, “You should rest more. You only got a few hours. The more you sleep, the faster you’ll heal, and the faster you can get out of here and back to your family.” _And away from me._

“Val’Aria - ” He tries.

She cuts him off with a raised hand, her cheeks heating in embarrassment, “Don’t. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. It’s better this way.”

She can tell that he wants to argue, but doesn’t want to upset her more, and his consideration for what she wants is so foreign to her that she feels like she has to get out of there, away from him and his….sympathy.

She stands, grabbing her cloak and yanking it on, making a hasty retreat back up into the farmhouse, almost slamming the trap door behind her. The storm is still raging outside, but she doesn’t care. She felt like she was suffocating under his gaze. The secrets that she harbors are too much to handle in his presence. He would surely kill her if he found out who she really was.

She isn’t used to wanting something she can’t have, because she has never really wanted anything, but seeing him, the pictures of his sister, an actual family and him treating her with respect and appreciativeness instead of just a mindless soldier? It’s all too much.

Val’Aria paces back and forth like a caged animal, conflicted, confused, tearing her hair out at how the fuck she came to be in this situation. She stops and eyes the table with the radio and moves swiftly over to it. In a fit of rage, she grips the edge and flips it easily with an angry shout in her with frustration. Breathing heavily, she looks at the splintered wood and busted receiver and she buries her face in her hands. She has overcome so much already, she can’t afford to be distracted. But this human, Cullen, is making her question everything even more than she already has, solidifying her decision of leaving HIS armies.

She was taught to hate the humans, trained in how to maim them, torture them, kill them.

She never expected to want to save them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? If you have any suggestions on where to go from here, or if you would like to see more, leave a comment! Thank you so much for the support! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Her name is pronounced Val and then Aria. Val'aria.
> 
> Whatcha think?! Let me know! :)


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